in many years, I was leaving my curly hair to do what it wished. I was over the glamorous blow dry. Against his better judgement, Thomas had styled it to a curly bob, which when dry shot up to just below my shoulders. I had insisted on attempting to return it to its former honey chestnut colour. I was beginning to like this more casual me. It gave me a feeling of freedom, one of lightness. And I had surprised myself and taken to gardening.
During my adolescence and early twenties, I had given little thought to gardening. In fact, none at all! My interests had been my career, fashion and travel when I could find the time to squeeze it in. I had taken the gardens surrounding me for granted, and had little understanding of the knowledge, creativity and tireless effort that went into them. Now my evenings were spent pouring over gardening books, earmarking pages with ideas I liked. The garden had become my new best friend.
The infrastructure I was undertaking on the house included plumbing, electrical upgrades plus a security system starting with the gate. The appropriate trucks were lined up opposite.
From my position across the road, I watched as Brownie slowly and methodically mowed the grassy nature strip. I knew I was going to have to come to a decision about him. At the rate he was going, it would be ten years before the garden was in order. I pushed it to the back of my mind.
Thoughtfully, I tapped my upper lip with my fingernail and stared at the place my new gate would go. ‘Flat bar or round? Flat bar or round?’ I repeated out aloud, as I noticed I’d begun to do more and more.
‘Round for the uprights and flat bar for any decorative work,’ a quiet voice said from behind me. I turned quickly to see the cyclist. ‘I do take it you’re talking about a new gate?’ he asked, standing astride his bike, gesturing to the blacksmith’s truck parked opposite.
‘Actually I am,’ I said, almost too stunned to say more, the sound of Brownie’s lawnmower so loud, I hadn’t heard the cyclist approach. It unnerved me. I looked sideways at him. ‘What is this? Are you a mind reader?’ More and more, I had noticed him on his bike and his avid interest in the property, or at least that’s what I hoped, and that he wasn’t casing the joint.
I had found being a woman living on my own encouraged my already vivid imagination to often go into overdrive. Thoughts came to me that would never have entered my head in the past. Just the other night as I prepared for bed, I heard a story on the late night news where a woman came home disturbing an intruder. She was murdered in her own home. I swear I spent the entire night sleeping with one eye open. Although I must say having Wilbur did give me a measure of comfort.
My thoughts were interrupted by the cyclist. ‘You’ve undertaken quite a huge project?
‘Did you know Frank Carmody well?’ I found myself wanting to question him.
‘Yes, in the earlier years when my father was alive… and then,’ he paused, ‘and then our paths crossed quite a few times after that. The last was here about eight years ago when he took me on another tour of the garden. I still remember its magnificence. Frank was a very clever man. He’s left a wonderful legacy behind. That’s the thing with gardens…’ he drifted off.
Intrigued by him, I once again attempted to guess how old he was and when his last visit would have been. Physically, he was in great shape, and his olive skin and dark eyes gave an air of health about him. However, there was something about his eyes that I just couldn’t put my finger on. Usually, I was excellent at reading people. He was a hard one to pick.
He interrupted my reverie, his eyes on the blacksmith opposite. ‘The gate will be galvanised?’
‘Ah… yeah… sure!’ I was pensive for a few minutes and then turned to him, my eyes narrowing. ‘And that is?’
‘A zinc coating to protect the steel from corrosion.’ He nodded at the blacksmith. ‘He should have taken that into consideration, or perhaps your husband has already told him.’
‘No husband, just me,’ I said, without giving it much thought, and then wished I hadn’t. ‘I’ll certainly mention it to the blacksmith. Thank you.’
I took a few steps towards the road when he called out to me. ‘I have some photos.’
I stopped in my tracks, now pleasantly surprised. ‘You do? Of here?’
He held an envelope out to me.
‘Oh… thank you. I’ll take a quick look so you can have them back.’
‘No, keep them. They’re yours. I have copies.’
I looked at this mysterious cyclist, who had kindly taken the time to unearth these photos, and wondered not for the first time, at his lifestyle that he could go bike riding whenever he wished. Although, the day was getting on, most people would still be at work.
My guard down, I offered, ‘You’re welcome to take a look around the garden today if you wish.’
He checked his watch. It went through my mind that perhaps he was a shift worker.
‘Sure, I should have time. Thank you.’ We crossed the broad carpet of neatly mown lawn, and he propped his bike against the front fence as Brownie turned the mower off.
‘I’ll have that cup of tea now Mrs Riding, if you don’t mind?’ Brownie called to me.
‘No problem Brownie.’ Horrified at the Wilbur incident, I was continuously making tea for the old gent, who liked a chat at the same time. I’d made a rod for my own back with that one.
The cyclist glanced at me. ‘I can roam around on my own, if you like.’
‘Of course.’ It was what I’d hoped for.
*
Once I might have considered looking out over the same view each day as boring, however from the kitchen window I had begun to constantly note the changing details of the garden. Washing up the teacups in the make do kitchen sink, I glanced out the same window, a couple of times catching sight of the cyclist with Wilbur, the overfriendly escort. Occasionally, the man went down on his haunches to study a plant. I noticed him push palm fronds aside authoritatively, looking as if he knew what he was doing. Once or twice he scraped at the soil and then pushed it back, shaking his head. Bending, he cupped a flower face, turning to see it more clearly. He took his time, and if his body language was anything to go by, he appeared to appreciate the garden as much as I did.
A voice called from the front door. It was the electrician, Pete. I checked the time. It was now after four. How typical of him to come so late. Pete kept odd working hours, however Marty, Davis and I had been using him for years at work and at home, and had become used to his peculiar hours. We had been known to go to bed and leave him working, telling him to let himself out when he was finished. However last night, now on my own, I shooed him out at eleven. ‘Time to go home to Julie,’ I said. ‘Come back tomorrow. I need my beauty sleep. Try to come a little earlier tomorrow hey?’
I flicked the switch on the kettle once again. I knew he would want coffee. I honestly wondered if these guys would expect tea or coffee from a male project manager. Somehow I doubted it, however, anything to keep them on side. Last Friday afternoon, I had even gone to the Brunswick Hotel drive through and bought a carton of beer, a tip from Marty. He said it kept everyone happy and keen to return Monday morning.
I followed the sound of Pete’s voice still booming from the front door. ‘Sorry I’m late Peach,’ he called. ‘You’ll never guess where I’ve been?’ His voice sounded animated. ‘Davis’s. Let me tell you, there’s trouble in paradise brewing over there.’ He laughed. ‘You’ll never believe…’
I put one of my hands up. ‘Not another word Peter.’ My voice sounded sharper than I intended, and without meaning to I noticed I had used his full name. ‘I am not interested.’ The last thing I needed was a setback. Hearing about Davis’s life kept me in limbo, instead of moving forward as I had been doing lately.
‘You’re going to want to hear this one.’
‘No, I am not.’